Note: I've decided to pop up a bonus chapter, because neither the last one, nor this one, are very long!
33.
Hermione couldn't stop thinking about Malfoy as she got ready for work, tired and with sore, scratchy eyes, yawning her way through her morning routine.
It was Friday, but they had lunch today – they'd skipped yesterday's because of the disastrous Halloween 'do. For once she wasn't entirely looking forward to lunch with Malfoy, as she remembered the night before with mortification creeping under her skin, making her cheeks redden as she applied moisturiser, staring into the bathroom mirror at the fine lines around her eyes, and the way her skin wasn't quite as taut either side for her mouth. It had been humiliating, angering, and then at the very end when he'd ranted at her and then kissed her like that, an odd muddle of arousal and upset.
Hermione hadn't enjoyed it, and she could only imagine lunch would be tainted by awkwardness thanks to his wife, and then his inebriated behaviour.
Bypassing the silk blouse and pencil skirt combinations she loved, Hermione instead dressed in a colourful long-sleeved shirt dress in a small retro print, with black tights – it was getting cold – and ankle boots. She buttoned her dress right to the second-from-top button as she stood in front of the mirror in hers and Ron's bedroom, simultaneously trying to jam her feet into her low heeled boots. Hermione found herself not particularly wanting to look sexy, but rather somewhat business-like. Quietly literally buttoned up, with not an inch of skin showing below her neck, or above her wrists.
She felt...well, annoyed with Malfoy. It was a strange feeling to have toward him, these days. It made her feel as though she'd travelled back in time. Or as though this timeline was unravelling, too unstable to work. After all, Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy? She would've been hard put not to hit someone for suggesting that twenty years ago. Now though...it did work, last night notwithstanding. She loved spending time with Malfoy, and she found him intoxicatingly, insides-meltingly attractive, and the idea of not being with him hurt, a small pain deep in her chest, buried behind her ribs. Hermione was already in too deep to even consider not giving this strange, proto-relationship that they had a proper go.
Perhaps it was foolish. Perhaps she should have spent some time by herself, single, after divorcing Ron – that would've been the recommended ideal. But life was messy and imperfect and Malfoy was here right now, and Merlin help her, if she lost him, she'd be devastated. It was problematic considering they were both still married, even if only technically. Although in his case, she didn't actually know how technical it was. What if he'd been exaggerating, or even outright lying? That possibility scared the hell out of Hermione.
It was still his felix felicis necklace that she hooked around her throat though, as annoyed and worried as she might be.
She nibbled the tip of her tongue, deep in unhappy thought as she wrestled her hair into a Dutch braid that was tamed with Sleekeazy's. They needed to talk very seriously at lunch today; that was clear to her, as much as she shrank from the thought of bringing such heavy topics out into the open, to be discussed and analysed. Her impending divorce, Astoria, and what they wanted out of the relationship. It seemed so...serious. It shifted the dynamic from finding their way organically to something planned and committed. That made Hermione uneasy; it was a big step. But she knew it had to be done.
After Christmas she knew she'd be legally separated from Ron, and pursuing divorce – she'd be a free agent able to date with total freedom and lack of scandal. Although no doubt the press would try to whip up some scandal, like a storm in a teacup she thought tiredly. The point was though – as she trotted down the stairs, a grey wool scarf slung around her neck and wand slid into her arm holster, shrugging on her black wool coat – that she would be single, but Malfoy, well... Presumably Malfoy would still be just as married to Astoria. And that was unacceptable.
Hermione had already crossed lines she would've thought she'd never be willing to cross, in this sort-of courtship with Malfoy. She'd been unethical, and impulsive, she'd let her heart rule her head, she'd behaved like a hormonal, stupid teenager – but she drew the line at becoming Draco Malfoy's mistress.
The morning went horribly. Mariska was off sick with a cold so Hermione had a temp who couldn't organise her way out of a wet paper bag, she lost the hearing she had at 9.30 for malicious use of magic that had resulted in a pet dog being exploded, and her 11.30 appointment with Edwin Tuttle from admin dragged by with such slowness that Hermione felt like screaming. It wasn't his fault – he had a terrible stutter – but it still drove Hermione insane after the bad morning she'd had, and by the time she was done she had a raging headache.
She didn't get rid of Tuttle until quarter past twelve, and when she ushered him out her door at long last, she saw Malfoy. In his black frock-coat and mirror-shined oxfords, leaning casually over the corner of Mariska's desk, one hand in his pocket as he chatted to the temp who was giggling in response to whatever he was saying. Olive, the secretary's name was. With curly reddish hair and a bright smile she was beautiful – and all of about eighteen. Hermione told herself firmly not to be ridiculous and let jealousy run away with her as she waved off Mr Tuttle, aware that Malfoy was watching her and Tuttle now, with a frown.
"Have a good day, Mr Tuttle. Yes, I'll send you the forms via interdepartmental memo. Buh-bye!" she rushed, and then turned to Malfoy, feeling oddly awkward and suddenly angry, her throbbing head not helping.
"Mr Malfoy is here to see you, Ms Granger-Weasley," Olive said brightly, and Hermione bit back a groan of frustration, pinching the bridge of her nose.
"Thank you, Olive. I can see him. Standing right there," she said in short, crisp sentences, more snippily than the poor girl deserved. Olive blushed, and Malfoy frowned again.
"Tough morning, Granger?" he drawled lightly. Unfairly, he looked no worse for wear after last night. In fact he looked like some kind of Victorian fashion plate in his frock-coat and silver-on-grey embroidered waistcoat, with white shirt and silver ascot, and white-blond hair slicked back. There were no dark circles under his eyes, and he was clean-shaven, looking fresh and remarkably well-rested. Tall, lean, and elegant. It really wasn't fair.
"Mm," she answered shortly. "And evening," she added, very pointedly. Malfoy flinched slightly and looked like he wanted to say something to apologise, but Olive was right there, watching them both with unabashed interest. He made a faint sound and rubbed his forehead, his eyes flashing quicksilver as they met Hermione's, a silent apology contained in that glance. Hermione sighed shortly. It wasn't as though she were going to send him away. "Come on through, Malfoy. I need to get my handbag and coat."
He followed her into her office obediently, pushing the door so it was ajar and standing in front of it, watching her as she dug through her handbag for some ibuprofen. Muggle medications were often better than potions for minor ailments; fewer potential side effects. She dry gulped two and made a face as Malfoy watched her curiously.
"Muggle medicine?" he asked, genuine fascination in his voice, and Hermione couldn't stop a smile. She loved how intrigued he was by Muggle things, and that beat out her lingering annoyance for the moment.
"Yes," she said. "For inflammation. It's good for headaches."
"Are you supposed to take it –" he gestured with two fingers and arched a brow "– like that?"
"Not really. You're supposed to take it with water to wash it down." Hermione zipped up her handbag and crossed the room, reaching for her coat. Malfoy got there first, holding it out for her like the consummate gentleman and Hermione frowned to herself as she slid into it. She rather wanted to rip strips off him verbally, now that he was sober and she wasn't a complete wreck. But even if she were going to, now was not the time, with Olive just through the open door.
"Thank you," she said instead, with a frigid chill to her tone, and Malfoy hissed in a short breath. Tension hung thick in the air.
"I'm going to be apologising to you for a while aren't I?" he asked ruefully, quiet enough that his voice wouldn't carry. Hermione turned to face him, fishing her braid out from under the collar of her coat. He was very close, his cologne a faint warm, spiciness, and his eyes were soft and sad, his mouth set with a little downturned twist. Hermione suddenly wanted very badly to kiss him.
"Possibly," she said, her annoyance mostly melting as she looked up at Malfoy, while he adjusted her collar with deft fingers, and brushed off her lapel, his eyes lingering on the necklace. Hermione got the distinct impression that he was just creating excuses to touch her. She had to suppress a smile, but it bled through in her tone. "We'll have to talk it over at lunch." Ugh. She sounded like she was edging more toward coy than serious. Merlin's pants, she wasn't as good at being mad at Malfoy as she used to be. Even so, it felt like they were two cats circling around each other, sizing each other up, unsure whether they wanted to fight or mate. And that was a bizarre mental image.
Malfoy stepped back from her with the faintest hint of a smile and inclined his head. "Fair enough. Shall we go to the Folly?" It was the most private place they frequented and Malfoy seemed to have a standing reservation. And the sea was so beautiful.
"Sure," she said, slinging her handbag over her shoulder. "I'm heading out for a long lunch, Olive. I'll be back at two."
"Oh! Yes, of course, Ms Granger-Weasley," Olive called after her as she strode briskly through the office and out into the hallway, Malfoy keeping up easily with his longer legs. They walked along together, Malfoy's hands in his pockets, his chin up and a relaxed kind of insouciance hanging about him like an aura. She suspected it was a carefully manicured act. It just didn't feel right.
"You know, she's definitely going to spread rumours after that long lunch comment, Granger," he said lazily, and Hermione frowned at his flippancy as they crossed paths with an Auror, followed by a scurrying intern.
"Didn't you charm her into silence, like you did Mariska?" she said, barbed. "You two seemed to be chattering very happily." Hermione was ashamed of her pettiness even as the words left her mouth, wincing inwardly. She sounded shrewish, projecting her dislike of Astoria onto poor Olive, who really didn't deserve it.
"She was telling me about her interest in becoming an Unspeakable, actually," Malfoy said. "And her pygmy puffs. She has sixteen," he said long-sufferingly, "and I heard all their names, and apparent likes and dislikes, while you were stuck in there with Stuttle." A mischievous smirk tugged at his lips and was gone again in a blink.
"Malfoy! That's just mean," she protested. She'd heard that nickname bandied about before in the offices. Poor Tuttle.
"He's a prat. Last year I caught him in the lift attempting to grope one of the temps – not Olive," Malfoy added, more himself now as he remembered the incident, his features harder and less schooled. "The poor girl was nearly crying. Of course, because he works wonders with office resources he didn't get fired, just scolded as far as I know," he finished as they arrived in front of said lift. "I don't know that he's done it since, but I don't think you should have closed door meetings with him again, Granger."
She made a horrified face, feeling revolted. "That's awful! He's never tried anything with me. Probably because I'm not some lowly temp. Although now I know what he's done, I'd welcome him doing it – it'd give me the chance to hex him," she said rather viciously.
"Well," Malfoy said as the lift doors opened to an empty car. "Either way, I was just making polite conversation with your temp. And I know you weren't going to accuse me of flirting with some girl barely older than Scorpius." Hermione's sense of shame deepened, which annoyed her a little. After his behaviour last night, he should be the one feeling ashamed.
"Of course not," she lied, eyeing Malfoy as they stepped into the lift, the doors sliding shut.
"Mm," he said, hands still in his pockets so that his frock-coat was shoved back, chin tipped up as he examined the interdepartmental memos fluttering around their heads, batting away one that blundered into him. "Good. You have plenty of reasons to be angry with me, Granger, but flirting with other women isn't one of them." He gave her a tired smile, and there was something so beautifully vulnerable about it.
"Not even your wife?" she couldn't help but poke, and he winced and hunched his shoulders a little.
"Least of all her, Granger," he said with a hint of bitterness, and then the lift rattled to a halt on level five and a wizard got on with an armful of scrolls and a distracted smile, and their conversation had to end.
The Veela's Folly was breath-taking as always. Malfoy, ever thoughtful, cast a warming charm as they stood on the balcony for several minutes before going into the warm restaurant. The wind-tossed waves were fierce today, the gulls' calls screeching on the buffeting winds, which snatched at Hermione's skirt where it poked out from beneath her wool coat by several inches. She was glad she was wearing her tights, even with the warming charm. And that her hair was in a braid. Malfoy said something to her, but the wind took it from his mouth, and only an indecipherable sound reached her ears.
He was looking at her with appreciative eyes though, the wind scrubbing his cheeks pink and making his hair a ruffled mess, and she approved of the colour it gave him. All heated grey eyes squinting against the wind, flushed from cheeks to ear tips, his mouth pinked as he worried his lower lip with his teeth, contemplatively. The sight of him made her heart feel too large for her chest and a slick, twisting heat stirred low in her belly, a sweat breaking out all over her with anticipation and nervous desire. "You're infuriating, and utterly fucking wonderful," she said in a quiet voice, safe in the knowledge that he shouldn't hear as she smiled faintly at him, and he frowned and tapped his ear. He hadn't heard. Good. She leant on the railing with one arm, and went up on tippy-toes, other hand clutching his shoulder to steady herself.
"I said, shall we go in? It's very windy," she said into his ear.
Malfoy gave her a look as though he suspected that very much wasn't what she'd said, but nodded, hand broad and warm on the small of her back as he ushered her into the restaurant.